Holiday on the Moon

Despite all the coffee, J fell back to sleep after we cuddled for a while.

Not sure if I wasn’t much of a cuddler or if it was that I was still antsy about all the things I was thinking about. Or if I just wasn’t used to it. I just hadn’t done much cuddling up to that point. When he was well and truly conked out again, I slipped out of bed, got dressed, and went down to the front desk and paid his hotel bill. I made sure to tell the clerk how awesome the concierge desk had been.

On the way back up in the elevator I had a thought for a phrase in a song, and I had to scrounge around in the dark a little in the room for a pad of paper and a pen. I wrote it down, then wrote out a bit more, a story-song, where at first you don’t know what the relationship is between the two people, you gradually find out more, and at the end you find out you assumed wrong. But then I kept changing it from you think they’re a couple and then you find out she’s a prostitute to the other way around. I needed a guitar to get any further with it.

J yawned and patted the bed next to him blindly.

“I’m over here,” I said, but I was moving toward him as I said it.

“Where’d you go?”

“To pay the hotel bill.”

He half sat up, then collapsed back down. “Um, thank you. You didn’t have to, you know.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, now at the side of the bed and looking down at him. “But I’m under the impression writer pay is for shit.”

“You’d be right, which is why I’m telling my dignity and manhood to just shut up about it.” He opened one eye. “Mph. How long until check-out?”

“Another hour or so.”

He reached out and hooked a finger in the beltloop of my jeans. “That’s plenty of time,” he said, rubbing one eye with his other hand. “I mean, if you’re up to it.”

“So long as your manhood isn’t too deflated,” I couldn’t help but tease, as his thumb slid over my zipper. “I’m up to it.”

“After all,” he said, “I don’t know when we’re going to have the next chance.”

“No lie, bwana,” I said, and undid my fly.

We made the most of the hour that remained, and afterward cuddled again. I was much more relaxed this time.

He kissed me again. “Say goodbye to me,” he said, leaning over me and kissing me again so that I couldn’t say anything.

When he stopped, I licked my lips. “You don’t want me to come to the station with you?”

“No, I don’t, because I want a proper goodbye kiss. If you give me one of those stiff-armed pats on the shoulder on the train platform, I’ll never forgive you.”

“That’s kind of a severe penalty.”

“It is,” he said, nuzzling at my neck. “Which is why we should say goodbye now instead of at the station.”

“All right.”

We kissed again, and that somehow turned into a quick shower together, and me getting off again under the water. And then he had to hurry to pack and get the hell out or he’d miss his train entirely. I lay in the bed, soaking the sheets decadently, while he rushed around throwing his stuff into his bag. One more lush, chin-scraping kiss, and then he was gone.

I lay there for a few more minutes, then got back up and got my own clothes back on. I was making a last look under the beds just in case when I realized a pair of boxers was under the heap of the bedspread on the floor. I held them up. Definitely Jonathan’s. I chuckled. It wasn’t really like there was any hint of a conquest in what we had going on, but I couldn’t help but feel like I had a trophy as I wadded them up and jammed them into my coat pocket.

I got home to find three messages from Carynne on the machine. I called her back and got hers. Figures. “It’s Daron, it’s Sunday, and sorry I didn’t call you back before now, but I had a friend visit from out of town. I’m around tonight and we’re rehearsing tomorrow, right? I guess call me if there’s anything I need to know before then.”

I brought the cordless phone downstairs with me and worked on “Infernal Medicine” and the new story-song for a while before it rang.
—

J. has good instincts about a lot of things, including D. Hold on just tight enough that he’s comforted knowing you’re there, not so tight that he gets an urge to escape. Perceptive doesn’t begin to describe it.